Remembrance
by A Glass Dragon
Summary: During the retaking of Gilneas City, a Worgen soldier participating in the assault is drawn to the house that he and his wife had once inhabited.


**AN:** **I do not own Warcraft. The character presented in this story is an original character.**

* * *

Catherine would have been furious.

In the distance, the telltale sounds of men fighting and dying waxed and waned. The battle to retake Gilneas City from the Forsaken was still raging on, fierce and violent. The Gilneans had surprised the undead when they stormed the Market District, but here in the Military District they had been met with much greater resistance. Last he had seen, the combined forces of Liam and Crowley had been marching on those Forsaken entrenched at the prison. Thankfully, the majority of the enemy forces seemed to be occupying the main roads and leaving the alleyways untouched.

Or, perhaps, not so thankfully. If there had been undead waiting with weapons raised, he could have had a better reason to stay away, to let the past lie. As it was, the only thing that had stood in his way was a mostly-destroyed barricade. A nudge with one boot had been enough to send the pieces of wood clattering to the ground.

The street in front of their house was littered with water-soaked pages. Even as he watched, the same rain that was pinging off of his helmet further deformed the runny ink, rendering the already illegible writing into so many dark stains. Toppled barrels, boxes, and bottles added to the effect, cluttering up street. As he stepped forward, shards of glass crunched beneath his heels. Catherine had never been one to allow a mess to accumulate outside their home.

The door was cracked open slightly, a foreboding sliver of the blackness beyond daring him to approach, more sinister than had it been flung wide. The sturdy oak was marred by four long claw marks, the deep gouges showing the stark lightness of the un-painted wood beneath. Where once the doorknob had been set, now an entire chunk of the door had been torn away, the jagged edges of the hole visibly flecked with dried, crimson blood.

His blood.

He ran his gauntleted fingers gently down the marks left in the door before applying the smallest amount of pressure. A horrid shriek filled the air as the hinges protested loudly, climbing and then falling in pitch as the door swung open. Catherine had never tolerated unoiled hinges in her house, either.

The blackness beckoned him, and he stepped over the threshold.

 _Hunger gnawed at him like nothing he had ever felt before, twisting and writhing and_ _ **aching**_ _with a kind of need that he could not deny. His den. He kept food in his den. All that was keeping him out was this piece of wood, more annoying than even the constricting pieces of cloth and metal that were wrapped around him. He hated this wood that kept him from his den,_ _ **hated**_ _it. He would rip it and tear it and break it and-_

His coatrack remained in the foyer, one of his old top hats haphazardly resting atop it. Gently, he removed the hat and held it, running his mail-clad fingers over the cloth. Though it felt like a lifetime since the evacuation of the city, it didn't even look slightly moth eaten or haggard. Just as gently as he had taken it off, he resettled it atop the rack. He turned to the rest of the room, his eyes now more used to the darkness inside.

The coffee table was overturned and had a leg missing; his favorite chair lie on its side in a corner with deep slash marks marring the cloth and letting the stuffing spill out. But other than that, it didn't even look like the room had changed. The same paintings hung on the walls, the same rug sprawled across the floor, the same cabinets with the same fine silverware and china. The hearth lie cold and dark, but he could replace the logs and properly light the house once more.

The illumination from the open door was generally muted and subtle, but a sudden flash of lightning briefly bathed the place in a pale white glow. His shadow, disproportionately huge and menacing, was flung over the remains of the table and the staircase at the back of the room.

 _Blood dripped from his claws, seeping around the jagged splinters which had lodged deep in his flesh after he had attacked the door. Growling and snarling, he tore them out with his teeth before prowling towards the back of the room. Scents both strong and strange wreathed about him, familiar as though remembered from a dream. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the_ _ **hunger**_ _. There, under the sound of pounding thunder and rain from outside his den, were the quiet noises of something moving upstairs._

 _Prey._

His fingertips ghosted over the wooden banister, disturbing a thin layer of dust. He stayed there at the bottom of the stairs, face turned downwards and body as still as the grave, naught but the muted thunder and rain and familiar yet strange creaks of an old house to keep him company. His downwards-tilted helmet had brought his gaze to the bottom step, where the rug covering the stairs had been torn by several sharp claws.

Catherine had bought that rug herself, jokingly informing him that it was her way of keeping the peace in Gilneas City by making sure its staunchest protector did not slip and hit his head in the mornings. She had smiled that radiant smile of hers and then-

 _The floor groaned under his weight and he paused, ears perked high as he listened for a change in the prey's sounds. The prey did not seem to notice, as its sounds only grew in volume. He stalked up stairs towards the sounds, and no more steps creaked beneath him._

He firmly set his foot on the first step and it groaned beneath the weight of a metal-clad man. He did not look up as he took the steps slowly upwards, gaze fixed on the marks where claws had nicked the rug. It took an eternity and an instant for him to reach the top, but he could not look. Not yet.

 _There, bathed in the light of the window. It had around it the same kind of cloth that hung in tatters about his form and constricted him. It- no,_ she _, was facing away, head bowed into its hands as it made its sounds. Fur of an extraordinary length hung from its head in a cascade made silver by the light of the moon, but he knew that it would gleam gold when exposed to warmer hues._

 _How did he know that? Why did he care?_

 _Hunger..._

 _Did he know this female?_

 _Hunger..._

 _She was prey, wasn't she? Why would he know prey?_

 _ **Hunger**_ _…_

 _His head hurt, a throbbing pain that took residence behind his eyes and pounded throughout his skull. He whimpered, clawed hands going up to clutch at his head._

 _The prey spun around, terror written in every detail of its being. It stopped making its sounds and froze in fear. He should pounce now, this being his best chance. He should attack before the prey could run or get the nerve to fight back, exploit its weakness._

 _But he couldn't. Not with the sight of gleaming wet trails marking twin paths down her cheeks. Not with the moonlight framing her beauty for him to behold. Catherine. Catherine had been crying. Why was Catherine crying?_

 _He… he would comfort her. Catherine would tell him why she was crying and he would make it better. She… she was his mate, wasn't she? He needed to make sure his mate was safe. He needed to make sure she was hap-_

 _ **HUNGER**_

The window was shattered. The curtains that had framed it hung in sodden tatters, the rain pelting in through the opening to soak the wooden floor.

No glass lay on the inside of the building.

He didn't go to the window, didn't move, didn't make a sound. A million thoughts raged in the background of his mind, but they were muted. As his gaze fixed upon the puddle of rainwater slowly staining the floor and shattered remains of what had once been his wife's favorite street-watching window, only one observation had the power to slice through the silent war in his head.

Catherine would have been furious.


End file.
